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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23016553">Sleep, sleep, beauty bright</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalendeer/pseuds/Kalendeer'>Kalendeer</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Don’t copy to another site, Fluffy, Gen, Poetry, Valar Appreciation Fic, angsty teenager, like very fluffy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 11:34:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,556</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23016553</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalendeer/pseuds/Kalendeer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>I had not seen Prince Fëanaro Curufinwë for a very long time when he came to me, a crown of red and yellow flowers slightly ajar upon his brow, cheeks flushed pink by a glass too many. He was at that age when adults allow the young to take a taste; Fëanaro had, quite certainly, managed to steal more than that.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Young Fëanaro has much to unload from his young heart, and Irmo is always happy to oblige.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Fëanor &amp; Irmo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>SilmGood - Feel Good stories for the Silmarillion</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Sleep, sleep, beauty bright</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepless_Malice/gifts">Sleepless_Malice</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a Valar Appreciation Fic for Sleepless_Malice, as a small "thank you" for her very awesome fic, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22226308">Love me to the end</a> ! It is an awesome Namo/Fëanor fic, with amazing worldbuilding about the Halls of Waiting!</p><p>While this work is meant to be part of a serie leading to some sweet Fëanor/Irmo, this part is 100% lighthearted gen fluff, hoping to make you all smile a little more!</p><p>Enjoy your read &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I had not seen Prince Fëanaro Curufinwë for a very long time when he came to me, a crown of red and yellow flowers slightly ajar upon his brow, cheeks flushed pink by a glass too many. He was at that age when adults allow the young to take a taste; Fëanaro had, quite certainly, managed to steal more than that.</p><p>The feast was given in honor of the birth of his latest brother. I knew Fëanaro well enough to understand such a party was salt upon tender scars, for I had cradled him in my arms as an infant while Finwë wept on his mother’s body; had kissed tears away from round, baby cheeks, and carried him laughing atop my head to shout with delight: <em>I am a bird! I fly!</em></p><p>“Lord Irmo,” he greeted me. His voice had the unsteady lack of grace typical of teenagers. His smile was small and nervous. I returned it with a benevolent one, of the kind that eased the Children into my presence. “It has been a long time.”</p><p>By that he meant he had been away from the Gardens for longer than usual. Always plagued by bouts of morbid nightmares, Fëanaro had been a frequent visitor of my realm until he reached that delicate stage of maturation when children decide to deal with everything by themselves. Yet it is in my nature to welcome the needs of others without ever questioning them, and I did not begrudge him any of his absences, for I was at his service, and he free of any obligations.</p><p>If Fëanaro wished for my assistance, I could (would) never refuse him.</p><p>We walked silently under the lantern-strewed trees of the royal gardens of Tirion. He radiated embarrassment, fidgeting with the hem of his lavish tunic, diamond bracelets and complicated braids, leaving one at peace only to torture the other.</p><p>“I have been wondering, hm. About. Dreams. Do you perceive the dreams of every Elda in Aman? I mean, I know you do, but are you aware of their content in any conscious way?”</p><p>“I could be, but I do not. I would be trespassing if I studied them without your consent. Is one specific dream bothering you?”</p><p>We reached the banks of a small pond. Multicolored carps circled under the surface; weeping willows swayed lazily, the silver curtain of their leaves whispering with the wind. Fëanaro led me under one of the verdant domes and, as the branches fell back behind us, it was suddenly like we were alone in a little world of two. The music of the feast had dwindled to a faint murmur, the laughers and conversations of the merry guests long forgotten.</p><p>He chuckled, still embarrassed, that this was a favored hiding spot for lovers, then turned bright red and sat down against the trunk.</p><p>“You would know, if someone’s dreams were… abnormal?”</p><p>“I do not seek to define which dreams are normal.”</p><p>“But you would know if I were the <em>only one</em> having them?”</p><p>“Yes. I do not spy on the dreams of the Eldar, but I have an instinctive knowledge of them.”</p><p>I sat by his side, letting my iridescent robes and pearl grey hair pool around me in shimmering folds of velvet and gauze. Fëanaro’s stare remained firmly fixed on his hands. He had taken his flower crown down and was picking at the flowers.</p><p>“I have been having… inappropriate dreams. In which I, hum. Do <em>things</em>. Inappropriate things. With other people. Is that normal?”</p><p>“At your age? Very much.”</p><p>“With <em>many</em> people.”</p><p>I merely tilted my head, looking at him, my iridescent eyes tinted with placid blue.</p><p>“Including my stepmother,” he mumbled, very, very low, right until he exploded in one fast, angry tirade: “What is <em>wrong</em> with me exactly? Aren’t we supposed to meet our one and only and that’s it? She is my father’s wife and I hate her and I want nothing to do with her, <em>ever</em>! And Liltariel is like ten times my age, Netyarë is dumb, Lilotea is married too, Awaldë does that gross thing with her nose when she thinks no one is watching, Lauralassë is like <em>urgh</em>, I cannot stand her. See? Not only am I weird but I am weird and <em>have absolutely terrible tastes in women</em>!”</p><p>And then he stopped, staring stubbornly past the falling branches of the willow tree to some imaginary point he could not see. His crown laid ripped loose on his tights.</p><p>I waited, but he was done unloading his heart’s content.</p><p>“There is nothing wrong with you. Most of the time, dreams are just dreams – a senseless mixture of various events, wishes and worries pieced together. Many Eldar experienced your current predicament at some point.”</p><p>He muttered: “Do they have precedents in their family?” And to my questioning expression, added: “Like my father.”</p><p>“Your father is not the only elf whose heart desires more than one. It is a foreign thought to us Ainur, but it needs not be for you, for you are of the Eldar.”</p><p>“Yet Manwë has ruled we should have only one spouse. <em>Ever</em>.”</p><p>“So he has.” Much against my own judgement, for I believed it was wrong to put laws on what we barely understood; and no matter how much Manwë wished for the good of my charges, I, who was constantly amazed by the twists and turns of elven minds, could to help but feel our limitations.</p><p>But for all his failings Manwë was my king, and I did not say what I thought of his laws.</p><p>“When you meet the right one, Fëanaro, you will <em>know</em>. You will not merely dream of her: her image will shine in the darkness behind your lids whenever they fall shut and your heart will sing as the drums of Tulkas’ games. You will feel like you cannot love more than you do and still know your love will be greater the next day.”</p><p>He stared dejectedly at his ruined crown. It was past the point of being fixed, as he had ripped some petals and leaves away.</p><p>I took it and started to attach them back, and though every piece I brought back to its place turned purple or blue or any color it had not been in the past, I cared not for it; for did matter, truly, if the flowers were a bit mismatched, and the whole thing a rainbow rather than a polished camaieu?</p><p>“<em>Your kiss is not my first, / May it be my last, / For I cannot love more than now, /And yet I know I will tomorrow.</em>”</p><p>“Indeed.”</p><p>I braided a few broken leaves together.</p><p>“You stole your lines from Elemmirë of the Vanyar.”</p><p>“Her words are most beautiful.”</p><p>I moved to lay the flower crown back on his head, but he unfolded then and caught it with a sly smile more akin to the small child who chased the chatty hummingbirds in my gardens than to the sullen, angsty teenager he had been few moments ago.</p><p>“Keep it for me?” It was phrased as a question, and yet he did not wait for my answer to put it on my head.</p><p>My eyes fluttered shut; I let the colors bleed into me, until my hair was of gold and vermeil, and the scent of the crown I magnified, from the muted perfume of dying flower to the heady fragrance of lavender and lilac .</p><p>When I opened my eyes, Fëanaro laid on the moss, his cheek resting on my tight, a bit too warm under my finger. Still a little drunk, then.</p><p>“Can<em> I</em> keep <em>you</em>? They don’t need you, I do. I, one needy, possessive, jealous child.”</p><p>“You are perfect.”</p><p>“Your opinion does not count. All Eldar are perfect to your eyes, Irmo.”</p><p>“<em>Your two great eyes will wound me suddenly / their beauty shakes me who was once serene / Straight through my heart the wound is quick and keen. / Only your words will heal the injury.</em>”</p><p>“Rumil. <em>Love / Is a ripe plum / growing on a purple tree. / Taste it once / and the spell of its enchantment / Will never let you be</em>.”</p><p>“Elulindo son of Olwë.”</p><p>“<em>I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair. / Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets. / Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day / I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.</em>”</p><p>“Quennar Onotimo.”</p><p>“You do know your poets, Ô Lord of Lorien.”</p><p>“My soul lives for the words of the Eldar, and the watercolor-words born of their minds.”</p><p>He curled against me as he did as a small child, tucking his heels and knees against his body.</p><p>“I have not been sleeping so well,” he sighed “Will you make me sweeter dreams tonight?”</p><p>“If you so desire, dear.”</p><p>I raised an arm like a bird opening its wing and, bringing it back against my side, covered the prince with one long sleeve under which he curled happily. Then, as he dozed from tiredness, wine and the cool glow of my presence, I started to sing yet another poem, though that one the Eldar had carried from the shores of Cuivienen and the first nights of their existence, and I knew not the name of the poet.</p><p>“<em>Sleep, sleep, beauty bright,” </em>I sang, soft and sweet,<em> “dreaming in the joys of night</em>…”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>“Your two great eyes will wound me suddenly / their beauty shakes me who was once serene / Straight through my heart the wound is quick and keen. / Only your words will heal the injury.”<br/>From “Rondel of Merciless beauty” by Geoffrey Chaucer, except the first verse is “your two great eyes will slay me suddenly”, but I felt like “slay” was very much unelven.</p><p>“Love / Is a ripe plum / growing on a purple tree. / Taste it once / and the spell of its enchantment / Will never let you be.” “<br/>“A Love Song for Lucinda” by Langston Hughes</p><p>“I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair. / Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets. / Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day / I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.”<br/>“Love sonnet XI” by Pablo Neruda.</p><p>“Sleep, sleep, beauty bright / dreaming in the joys of night”<br/>Opening lines of William Blake’s “Cradle Song”.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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